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Kopf's Story Book 4
[[Kopf%27s_Story|'Kopf's Story']] :- ''by Kopfjagger and Lucia A Child's Touch The mother shrieked when he son was propelled toward her, she dropped the plank and pulled her son's head toward her, cradling his body. Why wasn't he crying, or screaming in terror? He had been half asleep and dazed the entire time the undead held him, but now that he was free, he should have been hysterical. Lucia peered down at him and finally noticed the thin trickle of blood above his ear. "No, no." She sobbed, shaking the boy. "Alexi, wake up please!" she moaned. She slapped his face firmly, trying to get any reaction. His eyes remained closed. Frantically she searched the ground around her. Lying slightly off-side the road, exactly where her son's head had been, was a lost wagon wheel, partially overgrown with weeds and partially buried in the dirt. Sticking from the wagon wheel was a bloody iron nail; the thick, long and wickedly sharp ones that the builders guild used on high-stress creations. It was just a nail. She glanced back down at her son. A thin loud keening began at the back of her throat. Before she could stop it, wails issued from her. In her grief numbed mind she barely realized the sound was coming from her. He was free. No one was following and the darkness of the wood wrapped him in safety. He finally felt free of the awful encounter in that cursed town. A shiver ran down his spine and his hands shook. As Kopfjagger slowed to a mere jog in the woods, he heard a sound of misery that matched that in his own soul drift along the musty soil of the wood. He stopped and turned towards the sound. No one knew his pain, he thought in self-righteous arrogance. This sound could only have come from his soul. He had to find what made this heart-wrenching sound. Still under full stealth, he crept his way back to the outskirts of the small town. The druid had left, the guards had dispersed and the streets were vacant. Yet still there was that horrible sound. It was as if the sound itself had driven the rest of the town into hiding. He could make out the human woman holding her boy, gently rocking back and forth. Hands smoothing hair. Kisses falling gently on forehead. The sound was still coming from her and she seemed unaware. Why was she mourning the return of her son? He had taken such special care to not harm the boy. True, most of that was out of self-preservation, but he has killed for no reason before. He had intentionally spared this boy. The Head Hunter shook his head. The boy was indeed, unmoving. Then he noticed the blood. Quickly, he checked his weapons. They contained no blood, not even the blood of the Night Elf, which was unfortunate. Night Elf blood was especially wonderful. He stood there in stealth and watched this woman's heart slowly blacken. This was not what he wanted to happen. This was a recon mission. This was an innocent if ever one walked the cursed realm of the Earth Mother. And he was responsible. He and the Druid. Had the druid not pursued him this would not have happened. The hunter had given up easily enough, but that cursed mutant The undead rogue found himself staring and searching. After a few moments that took longer than it should have, he knew what to do. He unstealthed and removed his swords. He held his swords by their tips and slowly walked over to the woman, squatting in her misery on the dusty road. He presented to her his swords. It was time for him to die. He hoped that this time, it would be his last. He just wanted pain to end. All pain. Not only his, and not only until the next time. He no longer wanted to kill. He just wanted everything to end and this woman should be the one to end it for him. Lucia, as the human mother of two was called, sobbed for her son. She felt a gentle tap on her shoulder and looked into the sleep filled face of her daughter. She, in her nighty with her thumb in her mouth, looked in Lucia's eyes. "Momma?" Lucia gathered her remaining child in her arms. It was then that she noticed him. From out of the blackness, came the rogue, tips of his fiery swords in his hands, pity and sorrow in his eyes. He gestured at her, offering her his weapons. Rage filled her soul. I can end his existence, drive the tips into his blackened rotted flesh, she thought to herself. She stood and snatched the blades from him, snarling. Her teeth we bared as she prepared to strike his body. There was a frantic tugging at her skirt, she looked down and met her daughter's eyes, "Momma?" she said again, wonderingly, frightened. Lucia looked down upon her child. She couldn't. Her countenance fell as she dropped the blades. They clattered harmlessly to the ground, steel glinting in the moonlight, fire dancing in anticipation. "Another time, Undead," she vowed. "I will take something from you that you cherish. A life, not even your own, means anything to a thing like you. One day, I will find what you hold dear and I will take it from you." Lucia gathered her daughter in her arms. The Undead wouldn't know what she had said, and it was highly unlikely he spoke the common tongue, but she felt good saying it anyway. Her daughter in her innocence reached her hands out and touched the undead's face, un-afraid, un-flinching, a soft caress. Lucia jerked the girl away, put her firmly in the house and went back to get the body of her son. The undead seemed to be gone. A tiny dagger struck over and over at the shattered body of the Scourge. He told himself it was no longer his son and his daughter. They were not the ones eating the corpse of their rotted mother. Surely, it was not them that he slew. No one could see the shattered form on the road that night. He was shown mercy where none was desired. The touch of the child shot warmth and regret through his ancient, dry veins. His burning eyes dropped tears upon the dust and the fiery swords as the human woman returned to gently scoop up her slain child. No one saw, and aside from himself and the human mother, no one cared. ((This part of the story was written in partnership by Kopfjagger and Lucia. I have the honor of retelling it but at least half, if not more, of the creative power comes directly from Lucia even though her name does not appear to the left of the post. *bows deeply to Lucia* Thank you, Lucia, for letting me retell our story, I hope to do it justice.)) A New Mission Lucia carried the limp form of her son into the house. She went back for the blades of fire handed to her by the undead rogue. She swiftly placed them above the fireplace as a reminder. Every day she would remember her vow. Inside somewhere deep that she did not want to visit, she knew that would keep her warm. Exhausted and in emotional pain, sleep overtook her before she was completely in bed. The body of her son lay upon the cool living room floor. Kopfjagger made his way into the house after he mastered his emotions. He tried hard to see clearly but his mind was a fog. Finally he found himself perched at the foot of her bed, watching the human silently cry in her sleep. Her dead son was on the floor where she placed him in her exhaustion. Kopfjagger watched the daughter crawl into the bed with her mother, wrap her tiny arms around mommy and slip into sleep. He could feel his heart again and wished, against all hopes of years gone by, that he could not. The rogue had found his heart entirely too late. He removed his cloak and placed it upon the wooden floor. He picked up the son and gently laid him upon the cloak, folding the small child's arms across his chest. Coppers were pressed over the eyes of the young one and one of the Rogue's many throwing daggers was placed in between his tiny fists. He may need to defend himself soon and no one should face the nightmare unarmed. After watching the sleeping mother and daughter for quite some time, Kopfjagger stealthed his way out of the house. He had heard about magic that could bring the spirit back to the body in a way that was not a curse like his own. He had to find a priest. He had failed one young boy, not so very long ago. He would not have a second failure haunt him for eternity. Maybe, somehow, he could make the first failure right by not failing a second time. He considered taking his swords to persuade the priest to help him give this child, and his mother, their spirits again. After some internal debating, they were left where she had put them. They have not helped so far. Kopfjagger did not know where a priest was to be found and he was not sure if time made a difference in returning a spirit to the living. It did not matter for his spirit, but his flesh was not longer alive. Suddenly he felt compelled to hurry. The time for mourning could have caused the death of celebration. He quickly, yet efficiently, went into home after home, looking for the tell-tale garb of a priest. Building after building yielded no clues that he sought. The sun was beginning to crest over the hills and he knew that his time was running out. He had to find a priest and he had to find one now. What to do? Where to go? Please do not let this young one's spirit to begin this tortured journey now! He shook his fist at the sky. Do not make me fail twice, damn you! He was not sure who he cursed, but curse he did. Whip stirred in her sleep. Her dreams disturbed by images of spiders and an Orc. She jerked awake, startled at first by her surroundings. Where was she? Oh... yes, Goldshire. A messenger had arrived in Astrannar and she had been summoned to Darnassus. In the monastery close to Goldshire, the priest had an un-known illness that the humans couldn't cure, so she had come to their aid. There was no hope for the human priest. His soul had been drawn from him, and his blood poisoned. Unless they could find a druid in time, he would surely perish. And then they would have to find the creature that had taken his soul. There was no time to send back to Darnassus for one, and Moonglade was un- reachable. Whip, a nickname from childhood, tried vainly to sleep. Giving it up, she went to go take a walk in the woods. Whip always enjoyed the night. It was not the forest of home, the trees here where spaced too evenly, but it still had the wildlife and stars. Since that night in Ashenvale, the night she had attempted to heal the bear that was a tauren, Whip felt out of place. The scream of the spiders, the Orc's bloodlust and her desperate attempt to cause him pain were all very fresh in her mind. No wonder she had failed the Druid's rite of passage. She sighed in the moonlight, emotions conflicting within her. He was becoming desperate now. Did the humans not have priests? Did their faith rest solely in the hands of the Scarlet Crusaders twisted form of thought? A low growl was forming in the back of his throat. Desperation was turning into anger. What was this? Someone was coming out of a large stone building down the road. It was a Night Elf wearing long flowing robes. She had mastered magic, but was it the correct school? Could she heal, or would she blast him to smoldering pieces when he revealed himself to her? He had to try. Kopfjagger slunk up the road towards her, swinging wide to approach her from her side. He could not be seen too soon. If she raised an alarm and attacked before he could get close to her, all would be lost. Once he was within arms reach, he knelt and looked up into her eyes. He revealed himself to her. His arms were across his chest and he let his yellow eyes show the agony of his soul. It was not difficult to openly revealed himself and allow his heart to show upon his face. He had the memory of a child betrayed and children slain upon his soul and to conceal it was even beyond his power. "Please," he said with all the emotion he could summon. He felt a water and salt tear slide down his cheek and he was unashamed. "Please," he said again and he began to sob. "Please," he said a last time and hung his head, the tears flowing freely. His shoulders kept time with his sobs and shook him through his core. The elf paused a moment at a strange sound, then was shocked speechless (otherwise she would had screamed her head off) when an undead appeared before her. Poised to run, she was stopped by the expression on his face. Nervously she glanced around the area, no guards where in sight, no safety. She could probably climb a tree faster then he could, but what would be the end result of that? Beside, she was puzzled by his, its behavior. A Forsaken was pleading and crying! Forsaken dont cry! Cautiously she reached a hand out and with common gestures attempted to ask what he wanted. ((This part of the story was written in partnership by Kopfjagger and Lucia. I have the honor of retelling it but at least half, if not more, of the creative power comes directly from Lucia even though her name does not appear to the left of the post. *bows deeply to Lucia* Thank you, Lucia, for letting me retell our story, I hope to do it justice.)) Unholy Visions Kneeling beside the Night Elf, his anguish washed away his fear of the enemy. Only hours before it was a Night Elf that nearly ripped the flesh from his spirit. But this was a very different time and, thankfully, a very different Night Elf. He noticed her gesturing with her hands. He knew that she could not speak his language, but he was elated to know that his tone and his tears had spoken for him. Her expression beckoned him onward and emboldened him. What to do now? Thoughts raced through his head. He should kiss her hand in gratitude and to express his elation. No. She would think he was trying to consume her to regain his strength. Blast. He could grab her hand and pull her towards the fallen child. No. She would think he was trying to capture her or in some other way attack her. Perhaps he should point to where the Night Elf was needed and begin heading that way. No. That would be turning his back on his enemy and she was not to be trusted entirely yet. Quickly, he raised a hand to gesture her to patience. He slowly drew out one of his many throwing daggers. His eyes never left hers. He tried to make this act as harmless as possible. If only she would stay her hand and let him pull his dagger, he could explain. The dagger alarmed the Night Elf and she scuttled backwards. The undead was drawing a weapon and that was all that she saw. He quickly made another patience gesture. Frantically she wracked her brain to think of a way out, she had no time to cast a spell on him, he was moving slowly but rogues were know for their swiftness. And, she pondered, he was still on his knees. This is very strange behavior, she thought. Instead of casting on him, she quickly summoned her soul to shield her. Instantly a shimmering glow surrounded her. Protected from a limited number of attacks, she knew she could run now if he attempted to harm her. With a bit of distance between them, she waited to see what he had in mind. Seeing the Night Elf cast was a terrifying moment for the Forsaken. He was basically unarmed and at her mercy, but he did not move. His spirit release would at least end his misery for now. He watched her back away, not moving at all while she moved. He would allow her caution, but he could not allow her a great deal of time. Time was one thing he knew he did not have much of. She stopped and curiously looked at him. He could not hold the sigh of relief in. He slowly began to draw in the dirt road with his dagger. If anyone else saw him, he knew that he would be killed on sight. However, he knew that if he moved too quickly, it may be perceived as an attack. He slowly drew a stick figure of a woman, a little girl with long hair and a small boy. He was not very good at this, but to his eyes, the symbols were easy to make out. He fought back the torrent of memories, old and new, as he drew. He looked up at the night elf so that she could see the sorrow in his eyes as he drew an X over the boy. He then pointed down the road towards the house of the human woman, her daughter and slain son. Whip stared down at the drawing. What was he trying to tell her? Did he plan on killing tonight and was mocking her by telling her before he did? Surely not with that expression on his face but what then? She tried to think of the drawings meaning. She shook her head ever so slightly. Without warning, Whip shot her hands out and gripped the Forsakens head. She began channeling her energy and entered his mind. Controlling his actions, she drew him off the road, scuffing the drawing as she went. Once behind a tree, she watched the night patrol pass by. Whip, still controlling the rogues movements, attempted to do something the priesthood had forbidden any priest to do. With control of his body, Whip would sometimes conjure and read past images or thoughts. With deliberate violation of the rules, Whip delved into the undeads mind. She felt herself separate from her consciousness and take on his. She watched the day's events unfold before her, the fight with the druid, the death of the child, the actions of the rogue. She saw, and she felt. She felt everything from the Forsaken now in her grip. She fell to the ground from the power of his sorrow. The mind control broke, his actions was his own now. Would he slay her now for the violation while she was weak? She didn't believe so but she was in no condition to fend him off if he tried, she confessed to herself. Whip lay on the ground attempting to gather her strength. Returning a soul would require a lot of power. ((This part of the story was written in partnership by Kopfjagger and Lucia. I have the honor of retelling it but at least half, if not more, of the creative power comes directly from Lucia even though her name does not appear to the left of the post. *bows deeply to Lucia* Thank you, Lucia, for letting me retell our story, I hope to do it justice.)) Enemy Territory The Night Elf leaned closer to look over his shoulder as he scribbled in the dirt. He could feel her standing next to him as he began to cross out the little boy stick figure. Surely she understood what it meant. Her quick movement caught him by surprise. He felt hands grab his head and he tried to stand. But then suddenly he was watching his body from the outside. And he feltnothing. Nothing seemed to consume him. It was a sort of bliss without emotion, a peace without calm. He lost total control over his body and was being driven like a puppet on strings. This is what he gets for trusting, for hoping. If he survived this little dance the Elf was putting him through, he swore that he would see her flayed. He would ensure that she saw her heart in his mouth before her spirit left her. He saw himself being herded into the underbrush off the road. He could still see and hear, but he could not move. The sounds of the passing early morning guard came moments later and relief flooded through him. She would live, he decided. But that was all that he conceded so far. Suddenly he felt himself begin to slip away.... Something else was inside him now and he was shunted off to a corner of his own mind. He watched a replay of the days events in his own mind. It was worse than a re-telling, it was reliving. This must be the elf's doing. Now she would understand, but he was forced to live through the agony of the days events once more. The pain of it relived while it was still so fresh was too much. He collapsed not out of weakness but out of sorrow. He felt himself be released and yet he did nothing but lie there. If the Night Elf would not help him now, he would regret leaving his swords behind. Nothing could refuse and still claim to have a soul. Whip stood, still shaky from being in the undead's mind. It had been hard to navigate around, it jumped so much. Images flooded her brain and she pushed them back. The boy. That was all that mattered now and she understood what he had been trying to draw with the dagger in the dirt. She beckoned to the undead, wanting him to follow her. It did not dawn on her how ironic it must appear. A pleading Forsaken, a controlling elf and now she beckoned him to follow her. It was a strange day but a common goal now united these two, no matter how briefly. The life on an innocent is greater then the perils of war and the price of treason. The Night Elf's beckon was a great relief to the Head Hunter. He searched so desperately for a Priest that now his search was over, he was not sure what he should do next. He thought of vanishing and remaining in the shadows, but the Night Elf seemed to want his presence there. Perhaps she needed him to help bring the boy's spirit back to his tiny body. At the house of the women, Whip found the still body of the boy child. She called forth the spirits, her hands began to glow. Off to her side, the Forsakens fists flexed and relaxed, as if willing her to success. The mother and daughter still asleep. A ring of light appeared around the child. She pulled strength from her soul, from the undead's sorrow and began searching the nether for the boy's soul. Once she found it, she gently spoke to it and brought it safely back to its home. The Forsaken stared at the Night Elf. She was obviously performing some very powerful magic upon the boy. The room was glowing with pure light and the sight of it made him long for something so pure in his own existence.... he wanted to call it life but that just didn't seem to fit. The boy's eyes fluttered. His chest rising and falling with restored breath. When the boy's eyes fluttered open, Kopfjagger could not restrain himself and threw his arms around the Night Elf. He sobbed openly on her shoulder and the boy sleepily called out to his mother. He did not hear the warning from the Night Elf as the shot found its mark. The hunter had returned, drawn by the sounds of the sobbing and the light. A shot well aimed found the base of the Forsakens skull and he fell limp on the floor. ((This part of the story was written in partnership by Kopfjagger and Lucia. I have the honor of retelling it but at least half, if not more, of the creative power comes directly from Lucia even though her name does not appear to the left of the post. *bows deeply to Lucia* Thank you, Lucia, for letting me retell our story, I hope to do it justice.)) Awakening Lucia stirred in her sleep. She felt the hands of her daughter in hers. Two warm little hands, full of life, clutched in her own. Why then, did she keep feeling a tug on her leg? Something compelled her to awaken. A hope stirred deep inside her and despite herself, she forced her eyes open. She sat up. Her eyes blurred from sleep and the bitter tears of tormented dreams. Finally focusing, she looked down toward the end of the bed, straight into the eyes of her son. She breathed, he breathed. She stared, he stared back. Nothing else was seen. His eyes were her vision. Unrestrained joy filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "Alexi?" "Mother," A small and familiar voice came from the end of the bed. That simple statement in her son's voice was all it took. Lucia jumped off the bed and rushed her son. He went limp in her arms, hands loosely wrapped around her neck. She squeezed him into her, her face buried in against his small neck. Alexi lifted his head, "I remember Mother. I remember that other place." His voice was clear and steady, betraying the other-worldliness of his statement. She started, "What?" "I remember. I was awake and that man, the scary one, came and then he pushed me. I remember being hurt and then I was cold. But I was warm again so fast, and then there were strange people all around me. Someone came and held my hand. Then this pretty girl came with long ears and told me we had to go back cause you missed me too much. Then I woke up." He was speaking quickly, as if trying to get all of the details out at once. It was too much to keep inside and it flooded out of him in a torrent. The sounds of the sobbing Forsaken were lost to all in the room as everyone tried to figure out what the boy-child was saying. Kopfjagger could not make out the words, but his joy was none the less for it. Lucia gaped, her son remembered. "Alexi, this is very important. Try hard now honey. Who held your hand, was it your daddy?" Alexi paused. "No, it wasn't daddy. Daddy wasn't there in that other place. He wasn't there" and he started crying, racking sobs on her shoulder. The events had taken a hold of him now. Gone was the brave young man, replaced with the terrified youth who had seen the other side and came back to his mothers loving arms. Lucia looked up over her sons head; hands holding him safe. He wasn't there, she mused deep in thought. He wasn't there at that other place. NOOOOO! Shrieked the Night Elf. It was too late. The arrow had lodged itself in the skull of the Forsaken who mere seconds before was clinging to the priests robes, sobbing like the boy-child he had just helped to save. Arrows pounded into his back as his stunned form lay still on the floor. His eyes never left the boy child and his mother. He watched with joy their reunion, but now that joy was turning very quickly into anger and wrath. He had shown mercy and now he was paying the price for it. Counting each strike, feeling each new shaft enter his flesh, the Head Hunter let his wrath spill over him like a waterfall of anger. Again and again, amazingly fast, arrows thudded home in his back. Some glanced off of his armor, some were merely slowed, but others buried themselves in his back until their sharp arrowheads could be seen poking through his chestplate. He was so incredibly angry with himself for being so weak. His teeth ground inside his skull as arrow after arrow pounded into him. It took only seconds for the stun to wear off, but in those seconds he had become what he feared if he did not search for his soul. The pain of feeling was too much to bear and now that he found his heart, he crushed it in the hatred that burned his dark soul. His eyes began to glow with the fire of his malice. He looked over at the boy and his mother one last time. Let them see the monster in all its glory. He turned his back on the family and the Priest and slowly walked his way to the dwarven hunter. Enemy. Fresh arrows ripped through his armor and rotten flesh, but he did not care. He continued to walk towards the dwarf and watched the expression on the little kibble change from one of disgust to shock, then from shock to horror as an undead monster began to close the gap. Kopfjagger paid no heed to the arrows that ripped at him. He knew that his flesh could not take much more of this, but he did not care. The living valued their flesh so much that it made him detest his all the more. He just needed his flesh to carry him the next fifteen paces. After that, it could turn to dust for all he cared. In a burst of adrenaline and speed, the rogue closed the gap between himself and his prey in a heartbeat. He quickly grabbed the dwarf by the head with both hands. The rogues palms were under the chin of the dwarf and Kopfjagger picked the dwarf up by his head. Slowly the rogue placed his thumbs over the eyes of the kicking dwarf. The grin on the undead's face shall be the last thing this dwarf sees. He began to push. His maniacal laugh could easily be heard by the town as he began to push at the eyes of his foe. While his thumbs pressed, the Head Hunter began to chew at the face of his enemy. Gore dripped down the face of the Forsaken as he tore at the lips, nose and cheeks of the fat little mutant man with savagery and hunger. Ripping pieces of flesh from the Dwarfs face, the rogue pushed harder and deeper. Two wet popping noises were heard as thumbs passed through gore and into the skull of the now still Dwarf. Today is an excellent day to die. ((This part of the story was written in partnership by Kopfjagger and Lucia. I have the honor of retelling it but at least half, if not more, of the creative power comes directly from Lucia even though her name does not appear to the left of the post. *bows deeply to Lucia* Thank you, Lucia, for letting me retell our story, I hope to do it justice.)) End of Kopf's Story Book 4 [<---Book 3] [[Kopf%27s_Story_Book_5|[Book 5--->]]] Category:Story